Sunday, October 2, 2016

Don't Come A-Gawkin' if Hick is A-Walkin'

Please excuse Val Thevictorian from writing a coherent post tonight. She has not had her daily 44 oz Diet Coke. Signed, Even Steven.

Can't think clearly. Even thought I DID have some caffeine. It's not the same. I drove to town for my magical elixir, waited for a young man who held the door open for me to finish filling his 32 oz cup. Yeah. Even though he felt sorry enough to hold that door open for aged Val, he beat her to the soda fountain! That's because his knees are about 30 years younger, and probably didn't spend the day at the casino yesterday.

As soon as he was done, I pulled my 44 oz cup and pushed the lever for a few chunks of ice, and moved it to the Diet Coke spigot. DIET COKE OUT. That was written on printer paper and taped to the part that shows the brand of soda. You'd think I would have noticed it before, but I suppose I have tunnel vision where Diet Coke is concerned. What to do, what to do? This was the gas station chicken store, where they have signs posted about paying if you pull a cup. AND my knees didn't want to make a trip inside Orb K. The walking part would have been okay, but the thought of getting in and out of T-Hoe again sealed the deal.

So...I stepped over to the PEPSI fountain, and filled my cup with about 40 oz of Diet Pepsi, and 4 oz of Lemonade. The same concoction I drink at the Oklahoma casino without a Coke dispenser. It was passable. Not delicious. Not something I want again tomorrow. I will patronize Orb K after my belated weekly shopping trip to Walmart.

As if the shock to my system of not having its 44 oz Diet Coke today was not enough, that dastardly Even Steven had another trick up his sleeve. I went out on the front porch to give Jack and Juno their nightly snack around 6:30. Hick's supper was getting cold on the stove. He was at the BARn fiddling with the brakes on his 1980 Olds Toronado. Such extravagances that man expects me to pay for from the weekly budget!

It was time for Jack's monthly flea and tick pill. Juno gets the liquid stuff between her shoulders, and Hick administers it. Jack was all excited about tonight's treat of garlic bologna. I cut up his into small pieces, because he's only 6 months old, you know. Which makes him 42 months in dog years, and still a canine toddler. He danced on his hind legs sniffing the aroma of the paper plate filled with his snack. I held it aloft, giving him the chewable pill on my palm. Jack took it right away. He chewed on it and spit it out. Came back for the bologna. Nope. I pointed to his pill. He chewed it again and spit it out. No treat. Pointed again. Jack picked it up and walked under a chair, chewed some more. I didn't see or hear it hit the deck, so I gave him his plate of two slices of cut-up bologna, and called Juno for her share. Good thing she was late tonight, or she would have eaten Jack's medicine just because. So he couldn't have it.

While that was going on, Hick drove his regular car from the BARn to the carport, and went inside and got his bundle of uniform clothes to take to work tomorrow. He puts them in his car on Sunday nights, ever since that time he forgot and had to wash a load of clothes for the week. He came walking around the front brick sidewalk, saying, "I'm going to be like Dick and Diane." (Not their real names!) I looked up from dog-petting to see that Hick was walking across the long, long sidewalk that faces the gravel road, wearing nothing but his camouflage Crocs and tighty-whities!

Let the record show that Dick and Diane are referred to unofficially by the first settlers out here in our compound as "The Nudists." They lived in the city, and bought land up in here, and came down on weekends. One Friday evening, Hick's buddy, Buddy, was driving up the other way on our gravel road, and his son said, "Hey, Dad. Who's that?" When he turned to look up the driveway in question, he saw Diane mowing the yard with a push mower, completely naked.

At least Hick had a thin layer of white cotton between himself and passersby eyes.

"You get in the house!"

"No. This is my house. If I want to walk around in my underwear, I will." Hick came up on the porch and settled in the chair under which Jack had eaten his flea-and-tick pill.

"I can't believe you! Somebody is going to drive by and see!"

"Oh, well. They'll get over it."

So...if you're ever out for a Sunday drive and happen upon our gravel road...don't come a-gawkin' if Hick is a-walkin'.

If they pay ENOUGH EXTRA, I'll make sure they can see him in nothing at all. Maybe I could get a billboard, or a national TV commercial to promote my proposed handbasket factory and Hick's Shackytown theme park:

WAIT! Who said Hick gets a cut? Are you acting as his financial advisor behind the scenes? Is he meeting with YOU for five minutes of those four hours he says he's at the barbershop on Sunday mornings?

There was that day I angered the yellow jackets and managed to strip naked to the waist as I ran to the front of the building .... in a campground that now has 11 families in residence and faces a road. Like Hick, I managed this without being seen (that I know of anyway) and decided that if they did see me, they would get over it. Of course my event was not intentional, unlike Hick.